In Toulouse, Duane O. Muhleman of the California Institute of Technology described to us the very difficult technical feat of transmitting a set of radio pulses from a radio telescope in California's Mojave Desert, so they reach Titan, penetrate through the haze and clouds to its surface, are reflected back into space, and then returned to Earth. Here, the greatly enfeebled signal is picked up by an array of radio telescopes near Socorro, New Mexico. Great. If Titan has a rocky or icy surface, a radar pulse reflected off its surface should be detectable on Earth. But if Titan were covered with hydrocarbon oceans, Muhleman shouldn't see a thing: Liquid hydrocarbons are black to these radio waves, and no echo would have been returned to Earth. In fact, Muhleman's giant radar system sees a reflection when some longitudes of Titan are turned toward Earth, and not at other longitudes. All right, you might say, so Titan has oceans and continents, and it was a continent that reflected the signals back to Earth. But if Titanic in this respect like the Earth—for some meridians (through Europe and Africa, say) mainly continent, and for others (through the central Pacific, say) mainly ocean—then we must confront another problem:
The orbit of Titan around Saturn is not a perfect circle. it's noticeably squashed out, or elliptical. If Titan has extensive oceans, though, the giant planet Saturn around which it orbits will raise substantial tides on Titan, and the resulting tidal friction will circularize Titan's orbit in much less than the age of the Solar System. In a 1982 scientific paper called "The Tide in the Seas of Titan," Stanley Dermott, now at the University of Florida, and I argued that for this reason Titan must be either an all-ocean or an all-land world. Otherwise the tidal friction in places where the ocean is shallow would have taken its toll. Lakes and islands might be permitted, but anything more and Titan would have a very different orbit than the one we see.
We have, then, three scientific arguments—one concluding that this world is almost entirely covered with hydrocarbon oceans, another that it's a mix of continents and oceans, and a third requiring us to choose, counseling that Titan can't have extensive oceans and extensive continents at the same time. It will be interesting to see what the answer turns out to be.
What I've just told you is a kind of scientific progress report. Tomorrow there might be a new finding that clears up these mysteries and contradictions. Maybe there's something wrong with Muhleman's radar results, although it's hard to see what it might be: His system tells him he's seeing Titan when it's nearest, when he ought to be seeing Titan. Maybe there's something wrong with Dermott's and my calculation about the tidal evolution of the orbit of Titan, but no one has been able to find any errors so far. And it's Bard to see how ethane can avoid condensing out at the surface of Titan. Maybe, despite the low temperatures, over billions of years there's been a change in the chemistry; maybe some combination of comets impacting from the sky and volcanoes and other tectonic events, helped along by cosmic rays, can congeal liquid hydrocarbons, turning them into some complex organic solid that reflects radio waves back to space. Or maybe something reflective to radio waves is floating on the ocean surface. But liquid hydrocarbons are very underdense: Every known organic solid, unless extremely frothy, would sink like a stone in the seas of Titan.
Dermott and I now wonder whether, when we imagined continents and oceans on Titan, we were too transfixed by our experience on our own world, too Earth-chauvinist in our thinking. Battered, cratered terrain and abundant impact basins cover other moons in the Saturn system. If we pictured liquid hydrocarbons slowly accumulating on one of those worlds, we would wind up not with global oceans, but with isolated large craters filled, although not to the brim, with liquid hydrocarbons. Many circular seas of petroleum, some over a hundred miles across, would be splattered across the surface—but no perceptible waves would be stimulated by distant Saturn and, it is conventional to think, no ships, no swimmers, no surfers, and no fishing. Tidal friction should, we calculate, be negligible in such a case, and Titan's stretched-out, elliptical orbit would not have become so circular. We can't know for sure until we start getting radar or near-infrared images of the surface. But perhaps this is the resolution of our dilemma: Titan as a world of large circular hydrocarbon lakes, more of them in some longitudes than in others.
Should we expect an icy surface covered with deep tholin sediments, a hydrocarbon ocean with at most a few organic encrusted islands poking up here and there, a world of crater lakes, or something more subtle that we haven't yet figured out? This isn't just an academic question, because there's a real spacecraft being designed to go to Titan. In a joint NASA/ESA program, a spacecraft called Cassini will be launched in October 1997—if all goes well. With two flybys of Venus, one of Earth, and one of Jupiter for gravitational assists, the ship will, after a seven-year voyage, be injected into orbit around Saturn. Each time the spacecraft comes close to Titan, the moon will be examined by an array of instruments, including radar. Because Cassini will be so much closer to Titan, it will be able to resolve many details on Titan's surface indetectable to Muhleman's pioneering Earth-based system. It's also likely that the surface can be viewed in the near infrared. Maps of the hidden surface of Titan may be in our hands sometime in the summer of 2004.
Cassini is also carrying an entry probe, fittingly called Huygens, which will detach itself from the main spacecraft and plummet into Titan's atmosphere. A great parachute will be deployed. The instrument package will slowly settle through the organic haze down into the lower atmosphere, through the methane clouds. It will examine organic chemistry as it descends, and—if it survives the landing—on the surface of this world as well.
Nothing is guaranteed. But the mission is technically feasible, hardware is being built, an impressive coterie of specialists, including many young European scientists, are hard at work on it, and all the nations responsible seem committed to the project. Perhaps it will actually come about. Perhaps winging across the billion miles of intervening interplanetary space will be, in the not too distant future. news about how far along the path to life Titan has come.
CHAPTER 8: THE FIRST NEW PLANET
I implore you, you do not hope to be able to give the reasons
for the number of planets, do you?
This worry has been resolved . . .
— JOHANNES KEPLER,
EPITOME OF COPERNICAN ASTRONOMY,
BOOK 4 / 1621
Before we invented civilization, our ancestors lived mainly in the open, out under the sky. Before we devised artificial lights and atmospheric pollution and modern forms of nocturnal entertainment, we watched the stars. There were practical calendrical reasons, of course, but there was more to it than that. Even today, the most jaded city dweller can be unexpectedly moved upon encountering a clear night sky studded with thousands of twinkling stars. When it happens to me after all these years, it still takes my breath away.
In every culture, the sky and the religious impulse are intertwined. I lie back in an open field and the sky surround me. I'm overpowered by its scale. It's so vast and so far away that my own insignificance becomes palpable. But I don't feel rejected by the sky. I'm a part of it, tiny, to be sure, but everything is tiny compared to that overwhelming immensity, And when I concentrate on the stars, the planets, and their motions, I have an irresistible sense of machinery, clockwork, elegant precision working on a scale that, however lofty our aspirations, dwarfs and humbles us.
Most of the great inventions in human history—from stone tools and the domestication of fire to written language—were made by unknown benefactors. Our institutional memory of long-gone events is feeble. We do not know the name of that ancestor who first noted that planets were different from stars. She or he must have lived tens, perhaps even hundreds of thousands of years ago. But eventually people all over the world understood that five, no more, of the bright points of light that grace the night sky break lockstep with the others over a period of months, moving strangely-almost as if they had minds of their own.
Sharing the odd apparen
t motion of these planets were the Sun and Moon, making seven wandering bodies in all. These seven were important to the ancients, and they named them after gods not any old gods, but the main gods, the chief gods, the ones who tell other gods (and mortals) what to do. One of the planets, bright and slow-moving, was named by the Babylonians after Marduk, by the Norse after Odin, by the Greeks after Zeus, and by the Romans after Jupiter, in each case the king of the gods. The faint, fast-moving one that was never far from the Sun the Romans named Mercury, after the messenger of the gods; the most brilliant of them was named Venus, after the goddess of love and beauty; the blood red one Mars, after the god of war; and the most sluggish of the bunch Saturn, after the god of time. These metaphors and allusions were the best our ancestors could do: They possessed no scientific instruments beyond the naked eye, they were confined to the Earth, and they had no idea that it, too, is a planet.1
When it got to be time to design the week—a period of time, unlike the day, month, and year, with no intrinsic astronomical significance—it was assigned seven days, each named after one of the seven anomalous lights in the night sky. We can readily make out the remnants of this convention. In English, Saturday is Saturn's day. Sunday and Mo[o]nday are clear enough. Tuesday through Friday are named after the gods of the Saxon and kindred Teutonic invaders of Celtic/Roman Britain: Wednesday, for example, is Odin's (or Wodin's) day, which would be more apparent if we pronounced it as it's spelled, "Wedn's Day"; Thursday is Thor's day; Friday is the day of Freya, goddess of love. The last day of the week stayed Roman, the rest of it became German.
In all Romance languages, such as French, Spanish, and Italian, the connection is still more obvious, because they 4 derive from ancient Latin, in which the days of the week were named (in order, beginning with Sunday) after the Sun, the Moon, Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn. (The Sun's day became the Lord's day.) They could have named the days in order of the brightness of the corresponding astronomical bodies—the Sun, the Moon, Venus, Jupiter, Mars, Saturn, Mercury (and thus Sunday, Monday, Friday, Thursday, Tuesday, Saturday, Wednesday)—but they did not. If the days of the week in Romance languages had been ordered by distance from the Sun, the sequence would be Sunday, Wednesday, Friday, Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. No one knew the order of the planets, though, back when we were naming planets, gods, and days of the week. The ordering of the days of the week seems arbitrary, although perhaps it does acknowledge the primacy of the Sun.
This collection of seven gods, seven days, and seven worlds the Sun, the Moon, and the five wandering planets entered the perceptions of people everywhere. The number seven began to acquire supernatural connotations. There were seven "heavens," the transparent spherical shells, centered on the Earth, that were imagined to make these worlds move. The outermost—the seventh heaven—is where the "fixed" stars were imagined to reside. There are Seven Days of Creation (if we include God's day of rest), seven orifices to the head, seven virtues, seven deadly sins, seven evil demons in Sumerian myth. seven vowels in the Greek alphabet (each affiliated with a planetary god), Seven Governors of Destiny according to the Hermetists, Seven Great Books of Manichaeism, Seven Sacraments, Seven Sages of Ancient Greece, and seven alchemical "bodies" (gold, silver, iron, mercury, lead, tin, and copper—gold still associated with the Sun, silver with the Moon, iron with Mars, etc.). The seventh son of a seventh son is endowed with supernatural powers. Seven is a "lucky" number. In the New Testament's Book of Revelations, seven seals on a scroll are opened, seven trumpets are sounded, seven bowls are filled. St. Augustine obscurely argued for the mystic importance of seven on the grounds that three "is the first whole number that is odd" (what about one?), "four the first that is even" (what about two?), and "of these . . . seven is composed." And so on. Even in our time these associations linger.
The existence even of the four satellites of Jupiter that Galileo discovered—hardly planets—was disbelieved on the grounds that it challenged the precedence of the number seven. As acceptance of the Copernican system grew, the Earth was added to the list of planets, and the Sun and Moon were removed. Thus, there seemed to be only six planets (Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn). So learned academic arguments were invented showing why there had to be six. For example, six is the first "perfect" number, equal to the sum of its divisors (1 + 2 + 3). Q.E.D. And anyway, there were only six days of creation, not seven. People found ways to accommodate from seven planets to six.
As those adept at numerological mysticism adjusted to the Copernican system, this self-indulgent mode of thinking spilled over from planets to moons. The Earth had one moon; Jupiter had the four Galilean moons. That made five. Clearly one was missing. (Don't forget: Six is the first perfect number.) When Huygens discovered Titan in 1655, he and many others convinced themselves that it was the last: Six planets, six moons, and God's in His Heaven.
The historian of science I. Bernard Cohen of Harvard University has pointed out that Huygens actually gave up searching for other moons because it was apparent, from such arguments, that no more were to be found. Sixteen years later, ironically with Huygens in attendance, G. D. Cassim1 of the Paris Observatory discovered a seventh moon—Iapetus, a bizarre world with one hemisphere black and the other white, in an orbit exterior to Titan's. Shortly after, Cassim discovered Rhea, the next Saturnian moon interior to Titan.
Here was another opportunity for numerology, this time harnessed to the practical task of flattering patrons. Cassim added up the number of planets (six) and the number of satellites (eight) and got fourteen. Now it so happened that the man who built Cassim's observatory for him and paid his salary was Louis XIV of France, the Sun King. The astronomer promptly "presented" these two new moons to his sovereign and proclaimed that Louis's "conquests" reached to the ends of the Solar System. Discreetly, Cassim then backed off from looking for more moons; Cohen suggests he was afraid one more might now offend Louis—a monarch not to be trifled with, who would shortly be throwing his subjects into dungeons for the crime of being Protestants. Twelve years later, though, Cassim returned to the search and found—doubtless with a measure of trepidation—another two moons. (It is probably a good thing that we have not continued in this vein; otherwise France would have been burdened by seventy-some-odd Bourbon kings named Louis.)
WHEN CLAIMS OF NEW WORLDS WERE MADE In the late eighteenth century, the force of such numerological arguments had much dissipated. Still, it was with a real sense of surprise that people heard in 1781 about a new planet, discovered through the telescope. New moons were comparatively unimpressive, especially after the first six or eight. But that there were new planets to be found and that humans had devised the means to do so were both considered astonishing, and properly so. If there is one previously unknown planet, there may be many more—in this solar system and in others. Who can tell what might be found if a multitude of new worlds are hiding in the dark?
The discovery was made not even by a professional astronomer but by William Herschel, a musician whose relatives had come to Britain with the family of another anglified German, the reigning monarch and future oppressor of the American colonists, George III. It became Herschel's wish to call the planet George ("George's Star," actually), after his patron. but, providentially, the name didn't stick. (Astronomers seem to have been very busy buttering up kings.) Instead, the planet that Herschel found is called Uranus (an inexhaustible source of hilarity renewed in each generation of English-speaking nine-year-olds). It is named after the ancient sky god who, according to Greek myth, was Saturn's father and thus the grandfather of the Olympian gods.
We no longer consider the Sun and Moon to be planets, and ignoring the comparatively insignificant asteroids and comets, count Uranus as the seventh planet in order from the Sun (Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto). It is the first planet unknown to the ancients. The four outer, Jovian, planets turn out to be very different from the four inner, terrestrial, planets. Pluto is a separate case
.
As the years passed and the quality of astronomical instruments unproved, we began to learn more about distant Uranus. What reflects the dim sunlight back to us is no solid surface, but
atmosphere and clouds just as for Titan, Venus, Jupiter Saturn, and Neptune. The air on Uranus is made of hydrogen and helium, the two simplest gases. Methane and other hydrocarbons are also present. Just below the clouds visible to Earthbound observers is a massive atmosphere with enormous quantities of ammonia, hydrogen sulfide, and, especially, water.
At depth on Jupiter and Saturn, the pressures are so great that atoms sweat electrons, and the air becomes a metal. That does not seem to happen on less massive Uranus, because the pressures at depth are less. Still deeper, discovered only by its subtle tugs on Uranus' moons, wholly inaccessible to view, under the crushing weight of the overlying atmosphere, is a rocky surface. A big Earthlike planet is hiding down there, swathed in an immense blanket of air.
The Earth's surface temperature is due to the sunlight it intercepts. Turn off the Sun and the planet soon chills—not to trifling Antarctic cold, not just so cold that the oceans freeze, but to a cold so intense that the very air precipitates out, forming a ten-meter-thick layer of oxygen and nitrogen snows covering the whole planet. The little bit of energy that trickles up from the Earth's hot interior would be insufficient to melt these snows. For Jupiter, Saturn, and Neptune it's different. There's about as much heat pouring out from their interiors as they acquire from the warmth of the distant Sun. Turn off the Sun, and they would be only a little affected.